The sun was bright yellow and permanently shining.

It was also painted on a basement wall.

Beneath it sat a pig, alone with one old, filthy ball. There were no windows. No sky. No natural light. Someone had painted a cheerful imitation of the world outside while the real thing remained completely out of reach.

He looked at me, and I wanted to cry.

So, I smiled.

I lifted my phone and took his picture as if I was delighted to see him.

That was the strange reality of going undercover for PETA that day. I was there to document animals being held and used for entertainment at a roadside zoo inside a shopping mall. I needed to look like any other visitor, even as I quietly documented the exploitation unfolding around me.

Before I walked in, I had reduced the assignment to three instructions: act natural, be quick, be thorough.

I thought I had prepared myself for what I might see. I knew there would be moments when I wanted to cry. I hadn’t considered what it would feel like to smile through them.

To watch animals confined and crowded. To see hands reach for them as they tried to move away. To witness living beings turned into attractions and pretend I was enjoying the view.

The entrance was rundown and depressing. I followed the signs directing visitors toward the animals, and then I saw where they pointed.

Downstairs.

I knew I was going there to document captivity. I still wasn’t prepared for the realization that the attraction itself was underground. Their entire world had been pushed beneath a building, away from daylight and everything outside its walls.

As I descended, the natural light disappeared behind me. The air grew damp and heavy with the smell of feces and food. Industrial fans roared beneath low ceilings while children screamed with excitement as they moved from animal to animal.

There wasn’t a single window. Instead, there were trees painted on the walls.

That strange substitution followed me through the basement. Everywhere I looked, images and descriptions promised the natural world, while the animals themselves had been cut off from it. Painted forests surrounded cages. Signs invoked vast ecosystems beside animals whose worlds ended at walls, barriers, and glass.

At one tank, I held my phone steady as a shark passed in front of me. A little while later, the same shark came around again, and then again, tracing the same route beneath fluorescent lights.

The display could tell visitors about the ocean but watching that shark circle exposed the contradiction at the heart of the place. The facility offered people the idea of nature while keeping animals from living anything resembling their natural lives.

And it called that education.

There is a difference between learning about an animal and learning that an animal exists for us.

One begins with curiosity about another living being. The other centers what humans can take from them: a view, a photograph, a touch, an experience. It teaches us that if we want to see an animal, one should be placed in front of us. If we want to touch them, their body should be available.

As I moved through the basement, that lesson became impossible to ignore.

Lobsters in a touch pool had rubber bands around their claws while visitors were encouraged to reach toward them, even as I watched the animals repeatedly back away. Rabbits hid in corners away from the noise. Two cats sat on display beside a filthy litter box. Again and again, animals were presented not as individuals with their own desires and boundaries, but as something for visitors to experience.

And children were absorbing all of it: a world in which an animal moving away did not mean stop, and human curiosity could override another being’s boundaries.

We can teach them something better. Wonder does not require access, and learning about animals does not require animals to surrender their freedom.

Calling an animal an exhibit does not change who they are. It changes what humans permit ourselves to do to them.

That was why I kept filming, even when everything in me wanted to stop.

When I finally climbed the stairs and stepped outside, my eyes filled with tears immediately. I looked back at the building, knowing every animal I had documented remained downstairs.

I wanted to bring them out with me. I couldn’t.

But I could make sure what I saw inside didn’t stay hidden. I left with documentation PETA could use to take action for the animals.

On the drive home, sunlight began breaking through the clouds. After hours in a basement without a single window, I noticed it in a way I normally wouldn’t.

And, of course, I thought about the pig.

I thought about the bright yellow sun painted above him and how easily we create imitations of everything captivity takes away. We paint forests on walls. We describe oceans beside tanks. We tell children where animals come from while keeping those animals in places that bear no resemblance to home.

PETA refuses to accept that imitation as enough. For decades, our work has exposed animal attractions, challenged businesses that profit from captivity, and helped animals get out. That is why I was there with a camera in my hand, and why what I carried out of that basement mattered.

But PETA cannot choose where the public spends its money. We can.

Don’t buy tickets to attractions that use animals. Don’t pay to touch them, pose with them, or watch them perform. Teach children to admire animals without expecting access to their bodies or their lives.

Because the pig I left behind belongs beneath an open sky, not beneath a painted one. He deserves the simplest thing we could ever give him: the freedom to live a life that belongs entirely to him.

Help PETA expose cruelty and free animals

PETA’s Cruelty Investigations Department goes where animals need us, uncovering what happens behind closed doors and refusing to let their exploitation remain hidden. What begins with a photograph, a video, or an eyewitness account can become the foundation for action that holds abusers accountable, shuts down exploitation, and gives animals a chance at freedom. PETA has spent decades taking on powerful industries and institutions on behalf of animals who have no way to leave on their own.

If you want to help PETA keep showing up for them, please donate to support PETA’s Cruelty Investigations Department.

Despite growing up in a Muslim and Jewish household, we’ve somehow managed to remain close friends over the years. I suspect it has something to do with the vegan cookies and oat milk I’ve faithfully left out for you every Christmas Eve.

Which is why I wanted to write to you after spending the afternoon outside Radio City Music Hall with a megaphone leading chants alongside a small army of Santas.

Today, we gathered outside Radio City Music Hall to ask for something simple: that camels, sheep, and donkeys no longer be used in their Christmas Spectacular.

These animals are transported to Radio City Music Hall and brought on stage as part of the Christmas Spectacular every year. Between performances, they’re kept in the theater’s basement. While families gather upstairs to celebrate a season of kindness and generosity, these animals spend their days far from everything natural to them, treated as little more than living set pieces in one of America’s most beloved holiday traditions.

I have a feeling this sort of thing would bother you, too, Santa.

So today, we decided to bring a little Christmas spirit to Radio City ourselves.

Armed with a megaphone and a small army of Santas, we spent the afternoon inviting New Yorkers to imagine a Christmas Spectacular that’s every bit as magical without the use of animals.

For two hours, one of New York City’s busiest corners felt a little more like the North Pole. People smiled and waved at our Santas as they passed by. Children excitedly pointed them out to their parents. Tourists stopped to snap photos and ask questions. There was laughter, curiosity, and meaningful conversations with people who had no idea animals were used in the Christmas Spectacular.

It reminded me of something I think you probably know better than anyone, Santa.

Most people are kind.

Most people care.

Sometimes they simply don’t know what’s happening behind the curtain.

It’s funny. People often assume animal advocates spend our days asking for less.

Less tradition.

Less joy.

Less magic.

But I don’t know a single person standing beside me today who wanted less Christmas.

We just wanted a Christmas Spectacular that’s every bit as magical, without animals.

The Christmas Spectacular is beloved for good reason. Families have made memories there for generations. The Rockettes are extraordinary dancers. There’s something magical about New York City during the holidays.

Which is precisely why I don’t believe animals have ever belonged in it.

I have to admit that today left me feeling unexpectedly hopeful.

Most people weren’t learning something they disagreed with. They were learning something they didn’t know.

And once they knew, the questions began.

“They’re kept in the basement?”

“The show would be exactly the same without them.”

“They don’t need to be part of this.”

Christmas has always evolved alongside us. That’s one of my favorite things about traditions. The ones worth keeping grow as our values progress.

This holiday has always been a story about generosity, wonder, and protecting those who are vulnerable. Why shouldn’t our customs reflect that, too?

Perhaps that’s why I’ve always loved Christmas, despite never quite belonging to it in the traditional sense. Kindness has a way of transcending traditions and holidays. It’s something worth celebrating in every language, every faith, and every home.

So, leave the Christmas lights.

Leave the carols.

Leave the Rockettes.

Leave the magic.

Just leave the animals out of it.

The animals don’t know it’s Christmas, Santa. They don’t understand tradition, nostalgia, or spectacle. They won’t miss the bright lights or the applause.

But they will know freedom. Freedom to spend their days under an open sky instead of beneath a stage. Freedom to simply exist on their own terms.

Christmas will still come right on schedule. Children will still laugh. Families will still make memories together. The Rockettes will still dance.

Some traditions are worth keeping. Others are worth outgrowing. The Christmas Spectacular doesn’t need animals to remain spectacular, but we need you to help us free these animals.

I hope this Christmas is remembered not for what we lost, but for who we chose to protect.

Love,
Daria

P.S. We’ve made a lot of progress over the years, but I’m still waiting on your commitment to retire the reindeer. They deserve to spend Christmas at home, too.

Help Make This Christmas Wish Come True

Camels, sheep, and donkeys deserve better than a basement beneath Radio City Music Hall. Join PETA in urging the Christmas Spectacular to exclude animals from the performance. Click here to take action.

PETA had attempted to dump a truckload of manure as part of a demonstration. There was just one problem: the manure had frozen solid.

So there he was, scraping away while reporters circled, cameras rolled, and police officers closed in. A few moments later, he was thrown into the manure pile and led away in handcuffs.

My first thought was, Wow. I love this organization.

My second thought was, Thank God that’s not my job.

Not because it looked scary. It just looked like... a lot. A lot of logistics. A lot of moving pieces. A lot of conversations. A lot of planning.

And I was perfectly happy admiring the people who did it. I just never imagined I would be one of them.

As it turns out, the campaigner covered in frozen manure was Mason Melito. Despite the manure freezing solid, PETA successfully pressured the organization to divest from factory farming.

Since then, Mason has become one of my best friends at PETA and the person I admire most. Watching him, it’s easy to understand why he’s inspired so many people, including me, to step outside their comfort zones for animals. He directs volunteers, talks with reporters, answers questions from passersby, coordinates with police officers, and somehow makes everyone around him feel calm. More than anything, he’s authentic. He has shown me that activism doesn’t have to look just one way.

Before PETA hired me, I thought their demonstrations were mostly the headline-grabbing moments that made the news.

Over the past year and a half, I’ve realized their public outreach work is so much broader than that. Sometimes it’s body-painted dolphins outside an aquarium calling attention to a broken promise. Sometimes it’s bringing Carly the Cow, PETA’s life-sized robotic cow, into elementary schools to help children see farmed animals as individuals. Sometimes it’s standing in front of a concert venue sharing vegan friendship bracelets with peta2.

Different approaches, same goal: helping people see animals differently.

So when Maria Leonardi, PETA’s Senior Campaigns Organizer, asked if I’d lead our vegan jerky giveaway at Philadelphia’s FIFA Fan Festival, I immediately said yes.

What I didn’t appreciate until we started preparing was how much work goes into making a two-hour outreach event feel effortless.

Thankfully, Maria had already done the hard part.

She wasn’t just helping me prepare for the giveaway. She was producing it. Volunteers had been recruited, supplies had been shipped, timelines had been built, maps had been marked, and every logistical detail had been thoughtfully planned long before I arrived. Throughout the process, she checked in constantly, answered every question I had before I even knew to ask it, and made sure I had everything I needed to succeed.

As I was getting everything ready, I found myself thinking about a part of my life I hadn’t thought about in years.

About a decade ago, theatre production was my creative home. I loved the choreography of it all: the planning, the pacing, and the challenge of bringing dozens of moving pieces together into one shared experience. When I left theatre to pursue nonprofit fundraising and animal activism, I assumed that chapter of my life had closed. Teaching yoga has given me a beautiful way to express that part of myself, but this felt different.

As someone with a degree in theatre production who spent years founding and managing a New York City street theatre company before moving it Off-Broadway, I suddenly realized demonstrations aren’t all that different from theatre. There’s a producer, a cast, props, cues, and people who unexpectedly become part of the performance.

And then it hit me.

My shoulders relaxed.

I felt butterflies in my stomach.

This feels like home.

Our stage today was Philadelphia’s Lemon Hill Park.

The very first person to stop was a Philly native. He took a bite of the vegan jerky, smiled, and said, “It’s delicious.”

Those two words meant more to me than he could have known. They immediately quieted every question I’d been carrying into the day. I realized people were willing to stop, try something new, and have a conversation.

From there, the afternoon seemed to unfold effortlessly. Some people recognized PETA right away. Others wandered over because they saw free jerky. A few were skeptical at first, asking, “Wait... It’s vegan?” Then they took a bite.

“This is actually really good.”

“I would’ve never guessed.”

“Where can I buy this?”

People came for a free snack and left talking about animals, compassion, and vegan food in a way that felt curious instead of defensive. There was something especially meaningful about watching those conversations happen in my own city. Whether someone buys vegan jerky again, orders a vegan meal next week, or simply thinks a little differently about the animals behind their food, every lasting change has to start somewhere.

Driving home, I found myself thinking back to that frozen manure.

A year and a half earlier, I’d watched Mason’s demonstration and thought, Thank God that’s not my job.

Now, I’m proud that leading demonstrations is part of my job.

More than that, I’m grateful for what it reminded me about myself.

The animal liberation movement doesn’t need everyone to organize the same demonstration or advocate in the same way.

Watching Mason taught me what bold advocacy can look like.

Working with Maria showed me what thoughtful leadership looks like.

Leading my first demonstration reminded me that movements grow because people bring their own strengths. It also reminded me that sometimes the parts of ourselves we think we’ve left behind are simply waiting for the right reason to return.

Maybe yours is teaching.

Maybe it’s photography.

Writing.

Fundraising.

Cooking.

Organizing.

Or maybe it’s simply saying yes the first time someone asks you to help.

The animals aren’t waiting for perfect advocates.

They’re waiting for people willing to begin.

People like you.

My journey began with watching Mason dig frozen manure out of a truck.

Yours might begin with a piece of vegan jerky.

PETA’s Action Team is always looking for compassionate people who want to put their unique talents to work for animals. Whether you have an hour a month or want to lead demonstrations of your own, there’s a place for you in this movement. Click here to learn more and join PETA’s Action Team.

PETA supporters had gathered outside the National Aquarium to urge the institution to fulfill a promise it made nearly a decade ago: move its dolphins to a seaside sanctuary.

I had prepared myself for indifference. Maybe even hostility.

Instead, people stopped.

They clapped. They nodded. They asked questions.

Children, especially, seemed curious. I watched them point toward the demonstration and turn to their parents with questions: Why are the dolphins still there? Why can’t they go to the ocean?

Ten years ago, the National Aquarium did something remarkable.

It acknowledged that dolphins deserve better than life in a concrete tank.

In 2016, the aquarium announced plans to retire its dolphins to a seaside sanctuary, a protected coastal environment where they could experience natural seawater, changing tides, more space, and a life far closer to what nature intended.

The sanctuary was expected to open by 2020. Nearly a decade after the promise was first made, the dolphins are still confined to concrete tanks. Seasons have changed. Leadership has changed. Children who visited the aquarium in 2016 are now teenagers. Yet the dolphins are still waiting for humans to follow through.

There is something especially painful about an unfulfilled promise.

Not because promises are rare, but because hope is.

Most facilities that confine dolphins spend years insisting that captivity is enough. They tell the public there is nowhere better for these animals to be.

The National Aquarium said something different.

It acknowledged that there was a better option. It admitted that these dolphins could have more.

More space. More autonomy. More of the life they were meant to live.

And once hope enters a story, it becomes difficult to ignore its absence.

For nearly a decade, these dolphins have been waiting for humans to act on what we already know: that they deserve better.

“The National Aquarium acknowledged a decade ago that dolphins deserve better than a life in a tank, yet these animals are still waiting for the freedom they were promised,” says PETA President Tracy Reiman. “PETA is calling on the aquarium to stop dragging its feet and take real, substantive action toward their release to a seaside sanctuary.”

Video caption: Visitors passing the demonstration frequently stopped, asked questions, and expressed support for moving dolphins to a sanctuary.

The public response was impossible to ignore.

Many of the people offering words of encouragement were on their way into the aquarium. Others had just left. Some lingered for conversations. Several people applauded as they passed.

There was curiosity instead of defensiveness. Reflection instead of indifference.

As PETA campaigner Mason Melito noted, “Dolphins don’t belong in concrete tanks. They belong in the ocean or, at the very least, in a seaside sanctuary where they can experience a far richer and more natural environment.”

The public, in many ways, seems ready.

The dolphins are certainly ready.

The only thing missing is action.

As the demonstration came to an end, families continued along the waterfront. Children skipped ahead toward lunch. Tour boats pulled away from the harbor. Visitors returned to their cars and headed home.

Inside the aquarium, the dolphins remained where they had been that morning.

And where they had been the day before.

And the year before that.

Ten years after they were promised something more.

For the dolphins still living behind glass, acknowledgment alone changes nothing.

The dolphins are still waiting.

The National Aquarium must make sure they don’t have to wait any longer.

If you’d like to help dolphins and other animals exploited for entertainment, please consider supporting PETA’s work to end marine mammal captivity by taking action for these animals or making a donation to PETA.

Outside the Pierre Hotel in New York City, paparazzi lined the sidewalk. Cameras were locked in on the entrance where celebrities would soon emerge and debut their Met Gala looks. Photographers adjusted lenses, called out to one another, and tracked movement near the doors.

We got there early because positioning mattered. I posed as a paparazzo to secure press badges, which put me right in front of a sea of photographers ready for the first images of the night.

From that vantage point, everything felt like a typical Met Gala lead-up. Paparazzi watching the entrance, cameras lifting and lowering, everyone waiting for something worth capturing.

A paparazzi photographer turned to me and asked, “Who are you waiting to capture?”

“Mary Ann Persad.”

“Oh yeah? What’s her look like?”

“It’s a surprise.”

She nodded and went back to watching the doors.

The moment continued without interruption. Cameras lifted and lowered. People adjusted their positions. Everyone stayed focused on the entrance.

Then Mary Ann stepped out.

Draped in an overcoat. Composed. Guided into position. Cameras lifted immediately, ready to capture what they assumed would be another look reveal.

When she finally removed her coat, there was a pause.

Her wings extended. The body paint came into view. Across her chest, the message was unmistakable: Feathers: A Look That Kills.

Cameras didn’t drop, but jaws did.

Photographers’ flashes intensified. They kept shooting, calling out to her, asking her to turn and face them. The same cameras that had been waiting for celebrities stayed fixed on her.

At first, people reacted to what they saw. Some laughed. Some looked confused. A few leaned in, trying to figure it out.

Then they understood it.

They began reading the words across her chest and the sign beside her, held by an activist posing as her bodyguard, exposing the cruelty behind the use of feathers in fashion.

That’s when the energy changed.

For a moment, a part of the fashion industry that’s usually hidden was laid bare in front of them.

As Mason Melito, the PETA campaigner who led the demonstration, told me, “What people see as a glamorous design detail is actually the result of immense suffering that birds endure. Every feather represents a bird who was hurt or killed for someone’s outfit.”

Because the truth is simple: feathers come from birds who are exploited for financial gain.

Birds who are confined, handled, and killed so their feathers can be worn for a night out. Birds who are treated as raw material. Plucked. Cut. Discarded.

None of that shows up on the carpet.

Until something interrupts it. That’s where PETA stepped in.

“The Met Gala is one of the most influential fashion moments in the world,” Mason said. “Trends launched there ripple outward through designers, brands, and everyday consumers.” Challenging feathers at the exact moment they are being glamorized makes that violence impossible to ignore.

This wasn’t about asking for attention.

It was about stepping into the moment where attention already exists and using it to tell the truth.

Inside the hotel, stylists were still preparing celebrities. Perfecting looks that would soon be photographed and shared everywhere.

Outside, PETA had already set the tone.

And once you see it clearly, once you understand what those feathers represent, it stays with you. Not just in that moment, but in every image that follows and every choice that comes after.

Because this doesn’t align with who we say we are.

We talk about innovation in fashion. About creativity. About pushing boundaries. But, there’s nothing innovative about relying on harm that’s been hidden for decades. There’s nothing forward-thinking about repeating the same age-old violence and calling it luxury.

The future of fashion is already here. It’s creative. It’s boundary-pushing. And it doesn’t rely on animals to make a statement.

So the next time you see feathers on a runway or in a store, pause. Look closer. Remember who they came from.

And when you have the choice, choose differently.

Because the standard isn’t just what we admire. It’s what we’re willing to accept.

If you want to help expose this cruelty and push the fashion industry forward, click here to donate to PETA and support the work that makes moments like this possible.

Around her, girls at Philadelphia’s Excel Academy Central High School, many of whom want to become surgeons, nurses, and scientists, were removing synthetic organs, labeling them, and calling out what they saw with a level of confidence that felt far beyond the assignment.

That’s not what usually happens during dissection.

In most classrooms, the moment a real animal is placed on a tray, the experience changes. The smell of preservatives fills the room. Some students turn away. Others rush through it just to be done. The focus shifts to finishing the task instead of understanding it. For many students, and especially for girls entering STEM spaces, that environment can feel alienating, asking them to push past discomfort without questioning it, or to disconnect from their instincts just to participate.

Students had been gathering near the front of the room before the lesson even started. Some had already picked up the synthetic frogs, called KindFrogs, turning them over in their hands, surprised by how real they felt. They genuinely wanted to be there.

Along the walls, TeachKind posters and PETA materials made it clear that this school had already been thinking about animals differently. Not as tools. Not as objects. As lives worth considering.

KindFrog is a lifelike synthetic model designed to replicate the anatomy of a real frog. Students remove and identify each organ, performing a full dissection without using an animal or chemical preservatives. It’s part of TeachKind, PETA’s humane education program, which helps schools move toward modern, animal-free science tools.

When the lesson began, students moved into the dissection, removing organs, placing them onto worksheets, and identifying each structure. Instead of rushing to finish, they stayed with the process, pausing to compare what they were seeing and working through each step until it clicked.

Khloe, who shared that she wants to be a surgeon, approached it with that same focus. She moved carefully, double-checking her choices and making sense of each part as she went, not just completing the task, but understanding it.

Across the room, students moved with confidence, comparing notes, making decisions, and refining them as they went, building momentum as they worked.

“The most impactful learning happens when students are having fun,” Mr. Tori said. “And when they’re curious enough to ask questions and explore.”

That curiosity didn’t stay confined to anatomy.

Aamirah, who had squirmed at the fake organgs in the beginning, stayed engaged through every step. By the end, she spoke about the ethics of using animals in science in a way that felt honest and heartfelt.

Students described their past dissection experiences, the smell, the chemicals, and how difficult it was to stay present. Working with the KindFrog felt different. Without those distractions, they were able to focus more fully on what they were learning and stay engaged in the process.

When the conversation turned to what “responsible science” means, students spoke about protecting their research rather than harming it. When asked whether schools should move toward animal-free dissection, the response was immediate and unified: yes.

Even when moments felt uncomfortable or surprising, students didn’t pull away from the experience. They stayed with it, worked through their reactions, and continued engaging with the material in front of them.

That difference is important.

Because so often, especially for girls in STEM, the expectation is that they adapt to the environment, even when that environment asks them to ignore their feelings. Students are often expected to prove they belong by pushing through, rather than questioning what they’re being asked to accept.

This classroom flipped that expectation.

“I want students to recognize the multitude of ways we can show compassion to animals,” Mr. Tori said. “Both inside and outside the classroom.”

Here, students didn’t have to separate what they were learning from how they felt about it. They were able to stay curious, stay engaged, and still question the systems behind the lesson.

Some reached for bracelets and stickers as they packed up. Others stayed behind, still talking, still asking questions, still thinking through what they had experienced.

What stood out most was how naturally these students balanced skillful research with compassion. They didn’t treat them as opposites. They didn’t see one as getting in the way of the other.

They moved through the lesson as future scientists who expect their work to reflect both.

“I hope students leave thinking about how they can extend compassion beyond the classroom,” Mr. Tori said. “And recognize animals as individuals, not tools.”

If classrooms like this continue to grow, the next generation of female scientists won’t be asked to compromise who they are to belong in the field. They’ll help define what the field becomes.

Want to learn more about TeachKind and KindFrog? Visit teachkind.org/science to explore their resources and see how you can help bring humane education to schools across the country.

I stood near the curb holding pizza boxes and a sign that read “free vegan pizza,” while an activist beside me, dressed as a unicorn, made the scene impossible to miss. People slowed down. Car windows rolled open. A few drivers pulled over to see what was happening.

Starlynn, a fellow PETA employee, helped set the tone before we even spoke to anyone. Her unicorn costume made the outreach feel welcoming and lighthearted, which gave people permission to stop, smile, and stay long enough to talk.

As PETA campaigner Mason Melito explained, “PETA is asking Domino’s to meet the growing demand for dairy-free pizza by showing everyone just how delicious vegan pizza can be.” Taste opened the door, and conversation followed naturally.

By the end of the outreach, we had given away 4 boxes of pizza, totaling 32 slices. Every single person who took a slice told us the same thing: they would order vegan cheese from Domino’s if it were available.

One woman stopped with her child and told us she had never really thought about where dairy comes from. As we explained the harsh realities of the dairy industry, she grew quiet. She asked about alternatives and said she wished this information were easier to find.

That response set the tone for much of the afternoon.

Families pulling up in cars talked about vegan relatives, lactose intolerance, and how often pizza orders are shaped around who can and cannot eat dairy. Vegan cheese came up as a practical, inclusive solution that would make shared meals easier.

Mason connected those conversations back to the animals. “Right now, in the dairy industry, female cows are repeatedly bred and separated from their calves so the milk meant to nourish those babies can be sold to humans instead.” Offering vegan cheese, he explained, gives people a way to opt out of that harm without giving up the foods they love.

This outreach event happened on the exact anniversary of when I went vegan 9 years ago, one of my few New Year’s resolutions that actually stuck. I made the change after learning the truth about the cruel dairy industry. Animal suffering reshaped my eating habits and continues to bring me into conversations like these.

I kept thinking about how different that first year felt compared to this moment. Back then, vegan cheese was hard to find and rarely taken seriously. Standing on that sidewalk now, offering it to strangers who were genuinely excited to try it, the contrast felt sharp and undeniable.

This new year feels like a turning point because people are ready to choose vegan cheese, and the restaurant industry is being asked to catch up.

A man in sunglasses took a bite, paused, and smiled. He looked at the slice again, then back at us, and said he would order this pizza from Domino’s if it were available. He wasn’t making a political statement. He was responding to taste, familiarity, and the ease of knowing this choice could fit into his life.

When I handed a woman a slice of vegan pepperoni pizza, she asked if it was really vegan. After tasting it, she laughed, clearly surprised by how familiar it was. Choosing vegan cheese didn’t feel like giving something up. It felt like discovering an option that should already exist.

One man stopped to talk and shared that he had been vegan for years but had never tried vegan pizza. He didn’t believe the slice was vegan at first because it matched what he remembered so closely. The taste confirmed what he hoped: this was an option he would gladly choose again.

A cyclist riding by in the cold stopped for a slice to warm up. He was genuinely surprised by how good it tasted and said he would order vegan cheese without hesitation if Domino’s offered it.

Another man lingered nearby before stepping forward. I handed him a slice and watched him take a bite. He slowed down, nodded to himself, and smiled while chewing. He didn’t need to explain his reaction. It was already clear.

A couple stopped to thank us and take a photo. They talked about caring deeply about animals and wanting their food choices to reflect that care. They were glad to see someone pushing a major company to offer kinder options.

As the afternoon went on, a broader picture came into focus. Many people avoid dairy because of lactose intolerance. Others step away for ethical, environmental, or health reasons. The dairy industry depends on separating mothers from babies and treating animals as products, while also contributing significantly to climate pollution. What stood out was not a lack of awareness, but how ready people were for something better.

Mason made that clear. Domino’s already offers vegan cheese in countries around the world. The recipes exist. The supply chains exist. People are actively choosing these options wherever they are available. When vegan cheese isn’t offered here, it says more about Domino’s priorities than about what the company can do.

That’s why choosing vegan cheese matters now. Not as a statement or a sacrifice, but as a practical, everyday decision that aligns our food choices with our values.

If a sidewalk in Atlantic City can show the world how quickly people embrace a cruelty-free choice when it’s offered, there’s no reason it can’t become the norm.

2026 doesn’t need more debate. It needs follow-through. Vegan cheese is here, people want it, and animals are paying the price for the delay. Choosing vegan cheese this year reflects a shift that is already underway.

How long should animals be asked to wait for a change that’s already possible?

Ready to take action? Here’s how:

• Text PIZZA to 73822 to urge Domino’s to offer vegan cheese in the United States.

• Join PETA’s Action Team to help push companies toward kinder, more inclusive food options.

• Donate to support PETA outreach like this and help challenge industries that profit from animal suffering.

PETA’s Wool Hurts demonstration took place beside a busy holiday market, where shoppers weren’t expecting to confront the truth behind sweaters, scarves, and coats. From inside the snow globe, we could hear reactions unfold in real time. Confusion turned into shock, and shock settled into discomfort as people realized what they were witnessing. Nearby, other PETA staff and volunteers wore signs, shared images, and spoke with passersby, helping people understand the routine cruelty they were witnessing and how it connects directly to the clothes in their closets.

Kids slowed down with their parents and started asking questions. Some were visibly upset. Parents paused to explain what was happening, and many stayed longer than they planned. Several people admitted they had never learned any of this before. What began as a surprise turned into a reflection, which led many to say they would stop buying wool.

This is what activism often requires. It means stepping into public discomfort and trusting honesty to do what comfort never will. Comfort makes it easy to look away. Honesty asks people to slow down, feel what they’re seeing, and reckon with the consequences of everyday decisions. Around us, PETA staff and volunteers met that moment with patience and clarity, answering questions, sharing facts, and keeping animals at the center of every conversation.

This action was deeply personal for me because learning about the live export industry is what shifted my activism from criminal justice work into animal liberation 8 years ago. Live export involves shipping sheep overseas for weeks at a time, packed tightly with little protection from extreme heat, illness, or injury. Many sheep raised for wool are later sold into this system once they’re no longer profitable. Standing inside that snow globe, surrounded by people reacting in real time, I felt the same urgency that had first drawn me to this work.

The wool industry is one of the most aggressively greenwashed industries people encounter every day. Wool is marketed as sustainable, ethical, and harmless. In reality, sheep are bred to produce unnaturally excessive amounts of wool, leading to chronic health problems and dependence on human intervention. During shearing, they’re handled roughly and mutilated. Lambs have sections of skin cut away without pain relief to prevent infection, and adult sheep are frequently injured by fast, forceful shearing designed to maximize profit, not protect their bodies. When their wool production slows, they’re sold for slaughter or live export.

The truth is that wool isn’t necessary. Warm, durable, and stylish alternatives already exist. Cotton, recycled synthetics, bamboo, and innovative plant-based fibers allow people to stay warm without harming living beings. Choosing these materials means choosing comfort without cruelty and letting sheep live in peace.

What stayed with me most was how many people said they had never questioned wool before. They trusted the marketing. They assumed harm wasn’t part of the story. Watching those assumptions fall away on a busy sidewalk reaffirmed why actions like this matter. When people are shown the full reality of their choices clearly and honestly, many are willing to change.

Being an activist means stepping into moments like this, knowing some people will turn away and trusting that others will lean in. Inside that snow globe, with shoppers stopping mid-step and kids asking hard questions, I saw what happens when truth interrupts routine. Conversations begin. Commitments form. Harm can be prevented.

Every choice we make, including what we wear, shapes the world animals live in. Speaking up for sheep is one way we move that world toward compassion.

Learn more and take action

To learn more about what sheep endure in the wool industry, visit PETA’s informational page about these practices.

If this moved you, please consider supporting this work by donating to PETA. Demonstrations, investigations, and outreach like this only happen because people choose to stand up for animals.

As people passed through the bustle of the Christmas market, many stopped to ask what was happening. Families paused with their children. A few self-proclaimed “plant-powered” runners from the Philadelphia Marathon Weekend jogged up, still wearing medals. The energy built quickly, and the conversations were warm, curious, and genuine. Within an hour, every roast had been handed out.

Among those who stopped was a woman who shared that she’s never eaten animals in her entire life. She said the vegan options available today feel incredible compared to when she was growing up, and she was excited to take home a roast because she’s never tried one before.

A young boy reached forward to grab a roast from a smiling volunteer while his family stood behind him, beaming. The tenderness of that moment captured everything this event was trying to offer. A compassionate meal, a new experience, and a sense of belonging.

A little later, two people stopped to talk about their mom, who doesn’t eat animals, and how grateful they were to bring a roast home to share with her. Rian, the co-founder of Uncle Neil’s Home, an animal sanctuary, spoke with them about how easy it is to prepare and how meaningful it can be to celebrate without harming animals.

Revolution Philadelphia created a space that felt inviting to everyone who passed. Their work is rooted in compassion for animals and care for the communities they serve. Tiffany, the co-founder, spoke about why this matters so much. “Our organizing has always been inspired by compassion for the animals and for the people we share our communities with. Events like this reflect our mission. Sharing accessible vegan meals is an act of solidarity that connects our advocacy to real community needs.”

Tiffany added, “Partnering with PETA allows us to scale our impact. Their support gives us the resources to reach more families, provide quality plant-based roasts, and host this event in a way that feels uplifting and exciting for the community. When community members see PETA supporting something right here in Philadelphia, it sends a message that their community is worthy of investment. It shows them that the fight for animal justice includes them.”

Rian continued to speak with people throughout the afternoon, and when someone asked how to cook the roast, she enthusiastically walked them through the directions. It was clear, kind support that helped him step into a compassionate choice with confidence.

Volunteers like Mike and Claire held signs and offered roasts to passersby with warmth and enthusiasm, often sharing facts about turkeys and factory farming. Their presence made people feel welcome and seen, even if they’d never eaten vegan food before.

I held a turkey poster and talked with people about what it means to rethink tradition. Many shared that they’d been considering reducing their consumption of animals and that the roast felt like a great place to start. Others said the message on the poster helped them see Thanksgiving in a new way.

One volunteer told me she lives outside the city with horses rescued by PETA, and she came to Philadelphia to help because she deeply believes in this work. Those small stories shaped the spirit of the morning. People coming together, choosing kindness, and offering support in simple but powerful ways.

Tiffany also shared something that stayed with me when she said, “More than anything, we want people to walk away feeling cared for and included. Compassion isn’t just a slogan. It’s something we can practice together. If even one family leaves feeling empowered to explore vegan options, that creates change far beyond a single meal.”

What took place outside City Hall today mattered for animals in a very real way. Each vegan roast saved a turkey from a frightening, painful death. Every conversation invited someone to consider a holiday grounded in compassion rather than cruelty. And everyone who walked away with a spark of inspiration will bring that openness into future meals and moments.

Choosing a vegan roast matters because turkeys are intelligent, social animals who feel fear and comfort, yet more than 45 million are killed for Thanksgiving each year.

It became clear that the people of Philadelphia are ready for traditions that don’t require suffering. Today showed how quickly compassion can spread when people are given the chance to choose it.

Keep the Momentum Going

• Explore PETA’s ThanksVegan recipes to create your own compassionate holiday meal.

• Stay connected to this work by following Revolution Philadelphia on Instagram.

• If you feel moved by what happened today, you can donate to PETA to help bring compassionate outreach events to more communities.

Every week, TeachKind reaches approximately 800 students nationwide through the use of robotic animal presentations, providing teachers with free resources, activities, and lesson plans that foster kindness and prevent cruelty before it occurs.

When I arrived at Widener Memorial School this morning, the building buzzed with anticipation. Teachers called to one another down the hall, and the sound of rolling wheelchairs and sneakers echoed across the floor; you could hear the whispers of excitement spreading from classroom to classroom. Everyone was waiting to meet Ellie the robotic elephant.

Inside the school gym, about 40 students waited in a semicircle, their faces full of curiosity. Today’s TeachKind outreach specialists, Starlynn and Andrija, stood beside Ellie, their calm focus steadying the space. Their team has introduced humane education programs like this to schools across the country, and you can sense their care in every detail, from the way they interact with the children to the way they set up the display.

Ellie the elephant blinked her soft brown eyes and began to move her mouth as she spoke. Her voice, gentle and warm, filled the room as she told her story of being taken from her family, forced to perform in circuses, and finally rescued to live freely in a sanctuary. The students leaned forward, completely absorbed. You could see understanding flicker across their faces as the awakening of empathy took shape.

As the room settled into quiet reflection, Starlynn stepped forward to lead a conversation about empathy. “Kids already have a natural compassion for animals,” she told me later. “We just help nurture it. Every day is different, but it’s always inspiring. Kids are our teachers, too.”

Andrija added, “When kids fall in love with learning about animals, their curiosity grows. They start reading more, they get excited about school again, and everything connects.” It’s clear that for her and Starlynn, this is not just a job. It’s a mission of love that requires long drives, early mornings, and patience that never seems to run out.

Philadelphia is a city that deeply needs this kind of compassionate education. In recent years, children have been caught on video throwing rocks at dogs, burning cats, and broadcasting acts of cruelty on social media. These incidents are symptoms of disconnection. TeachKind’s work helps stop that cycle before it begins by showing kids that animals think, feel, and want to live, too.

This work is also happening far beyond Philadelphia. Across the country, TeachKind’s programs are creating lasting change in schools and communities. Teachers report that after these presentations, their students are more engaged in reading and science lessons because they want to learn everything they can about animals. The compassion that begins with Ellie’s story doesn’t end there—it continues to grow, inspiring children to learn, lead, and care more deeply about the world around them.

Toward the end of the presentation, a boy named Mong raised his hand. His eyes were bright, his questions thoughtful. “Entertainment is really important to me,” he said. “Don’t elephants want to entertain us, too? What if they tell us they want to?”

I could feel the sincerity behind his words. I told him that elephants do not choose to perform, and that if you look closely, you can see how they convey to us through their sounds and bodies that they do not want to be there.

“They don’t choose to take part in these performances,” I said softly. “And if you watch carefully, you will see the people handling them hurting them to make them obey.”

Mong frowned for a moment, thinking. “But the elephants make the circus great,” he said.

I smiled. “What makes the circus great to me are the performers, the excitement, and the friends,” I told him. “And when elephants are free in the wild, they can live with their friends, just like we do.” He nodded in agreement.

I told him about a livestream website where he could watch elephants in their natural habitat online, and his whole face lit up. It was a small exchange, but it carried something powerful and turned his curiosity into compassion.

When the presentation concluded, the room erupted in laughter and energy. The students gathered around Ellie for photos, reaching out to touch her, calling out thank-yous, and proudly naming themselves “animal ambassadors.” Their faces glowed with pride. It was a reminder that learning does not just happen through facts; it happens through feeling.

As the students returned to their classrooms, Starlynn and Andrija began to pack up, moving with quiet coordination that showed how deeply they love their work. They do this week after week, bringing humane education to hundreds of children across the country. Watching them, I thought about how every act of teaching, every conversation, every question from a student like Mong, creates ripples that reach far beyond the school walls.

Outside, the autumn sun reflected off the side of the TeachKind truck, its big letters standing bright against the design: We’re someone, not something. I stopped for a moment and looked back at the building, thinking about all that had just happened inside. The children’s faces, Ellie’s voice, the quiet patience of Starlynn and Andrija, all of it part of something much larger than a single presentation.

This is what systemic change looks like. It begins in a classroom, in a conversation, in a child’s decision to care. Humane education does not just prevent cruelty. It builds safer, kinder communities for people and animals alike. It helps children grow into compassionate adults who understand that every being deserves to live free from suffering.

You can learn more about Ellie’s journey and how she is inspiring students across the country here: Meet Ellie, Ex-Captive Elephant and Anti-Circus Crusader.

If you would like to learn more about TeachKind’s free humane education programs, visit TeachKind.org.

To support this lifesaving work and help bring Ellie to more schools, make a donation here: www.peta.org/donate.

For me, it was a full-circle moment. I began my career in activism in New York City nearly 15 years ago as a volunteer vegan mentor with PETA. Since then, I’ve organized demonstrations, distributed outreach literature, and spent countless hours holding signs and having tough conversations. But somehow, I had never joined a march.

I’ve done trainings, spoken on panels, and stood outside butcher shops in silence, but this experience was different. I had walked those same New York City blocks a million times before, but never in this way. Shoulder to shoulder with others demanding visibility for animals, we became a sea of resistance that made people stop and listen. Our presence declared: animals are not ours to exploit, and we will not stay silent.

There was music and chanting, signs and megaphones, live drumming and dancing. Our voices filled the air with calls for liberation, for compassion, for justice.

Chants like “Humane meat is a lie, animals do not want to die” and “What do we want? Animal liberation! When do we want it? Now!” rang out. People clapped from the sidewalks. Some raised their fists. Others watched quietly, taking it all in.

I was there representing PETA, but I was also there as a friend to my fellow activists. I got to reconnect with longtime supporter Zoe Stolbun and her friend Jane. Zoe has been such a champion for animals and helped create the Stolbun Compassionate Educator Award through PETA’s TeachKind program. It was incredible to see her so engaged throughout the day, bringing her kindness and enthusiasm to every moment.

I also ran into Gene Baur, founder of Farm Sanctuary, whose words stuck with me when we first met years ago at the Dominion film premiere. He reminded me then to “keep fighting the good fight,” and he continues to be a steady and passionate voice for change. Gene shared updates about Farm Sanctuary’s new work in humane education, and seeing him in the community again uplifted my spirit and gave me hope.

One of the most moving moments of the day was seeing Ashley Byrne, Director of Outreach at PETA, and one of the first activists who ever inspired me. Back in 2017, I watched her speak as a guest in numerous online interviews and felt something shift within me every time she shone a light on animals being used for leather, in the dairy industry, or in labs across the country. Her ability to speak with both urgency and empathy has stayed with me ever since.

Watching Ashley lead chants and fire up the crowd reminded me how far this movement has come and how deeply rooted we are in this fight. Ashley is a brilliant strategist, a magnetic speaker, and a guiding light for so many in this movement.

We also caught up with our amazing PETA campaigners Alicia and Mason, who helped lead chants and kept the energy high throughout the route. I also loved running into my good friend Sage Max from Legal Impact for Chickens. The march was beautifully organized by Rachel Levy Ejsmont and Jamie Logan, and their work made this event powerful, accessible, and unforgettable.

This march was for the animals, but it was also for all of us. For anyone who has ever felt alone in their compassion. For those who want to help but aren’t sure where to begin. And for people who aren’t vegan, but care about justice and want to do something that matters.

Being together in the streets reminded me that change occurs within a community. That we’re not alone, and we’re not powerless.

If you’ve never been to a march, this is your sign. Whether you’re just getting started or have been at it 15 years like me, showing up makes a difference. For the animals. For the planet. For each other.

Ready to get involved? Here’s how:

Join PETA’s Action Team to receive urgent alerts and opportunities to speak up for animals in your community and beyond.

Make a donation to PETA to help power campaigns, rescue operations, education initiatives, and more.

Together, we can end animal exploitation, one voice, one step, one march at a time.

A committed vegan for fifteen years, Joe also rescues chickens. He writes lyrics that speak to pain, healing, and justice, and he lives those values offstage, too. When he asked peta2 to be part of his national tour, he wasn’t looking for a gimmick. He was offering something powerful: the chance to connect his art to his ethics and invite his fans to do the same.

At each stop, the peta2 team connects with fans waiting in line outside the venue, welcomes them again inside, and staffs a booth near the stage throughout the show. They ask concertgoers if they want to receive texts from Joe about his vegan lifestyle and how they can help animals. In exchange, fans receive vegan stickers and a black and white wristband stamped with the words “animal liberation.”

Once they opt in, they start getting messages from Joe—vegan recipes, pictures of Joe and his rescued chickens, and ideas for how to make a difference. Fans were thrilled. They thanked us, took pictures, and shared their excitement about being part of something that mattered.

In Philadelphia alone, where I had the opportunity to join the team in action at a sold-out show, we got nearly 200 people to sign up. The response was electric. Fans couldn’t believe they were getting messages directly from Joe, and many said it made them want to learn even more.

The Power of Celebrity and Trust

“If Joe cares about this, I care about it, too,” one fan told us after signing up. That sentence says everything about why this matters. Celebrity isn’t just about influence. It’s about trust. Joe’s fans connect with him on a deep emotional level. So when he speaks up for animals, it lands differently. It inspires action.

PETA partners with artists like Joe not for visibility alone, but because these connections spark real change. A message about animal rights becomes more than a slogan—it becomes personal. And that’s how movements grow.

What makes this moment so important is that it isn't just about Joe. It’s about how his platform opens a door. It’s about the way art and activism can blend so seamlessly that the line between concert and cause disappears. His willingness to share this space with PETA sends a message that helping animals isn’t just possible, it’s urgent, and it’s cool.

This Is What Outreach Looks Like

peta2 was created to meet young people where they are, and where they are is in line at sold-out shows, sharing playlists, and opening up to artists who say what they feel. Outreach at these venues isn’t about convincing people—it’s about connecting with them. It’s not about preaching—it’s about offering a chance to be part of something meaningful.

Unlike veg fests or animal rights events, these concerts are full of people who may be hearing this message for the very first time. Some are surprised, some are curious, and many are ready. The conversations are authentic. The energy is real. And because fans already trust the artist, they’re far more willing to listen, ask questions, and imagine a new path forward.

At a time when misinformation and apathy can feel overwhelming, this kind of in-person, values-based outreach is a lifeline. It’s powerful because it’s human. It’s joyful. It’s peer-to-peer activism with purpose. And it’s working.

The Team Behind the Table

Shannon and Liv are two of the peta2 staff members who make this tour happen. They travel long hours between cities. They drive through the night. They carry heavy boxes, set up booths, and stay on their feet until every last fan leaves. And they do it all not for money or recognition, but for the animals.

Their teamwork is remarkable. Shannon brings warmth and energy that lights up every space she enters, while Liv brings a steady, thoughtful presence that invites real conversation. They balance each other beautifully, in a way that makes their shared purpose feel not only seamless, but deeply genuine. Together, they create a welcoming environment where questions are encouraged, curiosity is met with care, and every person feels seen. You can feel their commitment in every interaction and the heart they bring to this work.

Watching them work is genuinely inspiring. They’re not there to sell anything or collect praise. They’re there to give animals a voice. They show up again and again so that someone else might walk away ready to make a change.

What PETA Supporters Make Possible

Everything you’ve just read—every sticker handed out, every text sent, every young person who walked away thinking differently about animals—was made possible by PETA supporters. Your generosity fuels the travel, the materials, the staffing, and the strategy behind this entire program. You are part of every story shared and every mind opened.

Because of you, young people in cities across the country are learning how to help animals. They’re signing up, speaking out, and discovering a path they didn’t know was there. And they’re doing it with confidence, because someone they admire believed it mattered, too.

This is what modern advocacy looks like. It’s vibrant, it’s honest, and it’s driven by compassion and community.

If you want to keep this work going, here’s how you can help:

• Make a gift to support peta2’s next tour stop: peta.org/donate

• Text peta2 to 30933 for tips on compassionate living, ways to help animals, and more

• Sign up for PETA Action Alerts and speak up when animals need you

• Share this story with someone who loves music and animals

Together, we’re building a kinder future for animals, one show at a time, and we truly couldn’t do it without the support of people who believe this work matters.

PETA’s TeachKind science team.

Our table wasn’t the flashiest. No giant backdrops or flashy light-up signs. Just a few team members, a modest table, and a frog. But not just any frog. KindFrog.

A life-like, cruelty-free dissection alternative made possible by the generosity of PETA’s members and donors.

One teacher said, “I usually spend half the class trying to convince kids to dissect a frog. This changes everything.”

And it does.

KindFrog is soft to the touch. Realistic. Accurate. It allows students to learn anatomy without cutting into the bodies of animals who were once alive. It makes science more inclusive—especially for girls in STEM and students who feel uncomfortable being asked to slice into someone who used to feel pain and fear.

I watched teachers pick it up and turn it in their hands, wide-eyed. Some laughed. Some gasped. Two cried. One told us that she had been so traumatized by dissection in high school that she changed her major from biology to chemistry just to avoid putting a knife into an animal again.

Another leaned over the table and said, “This is genius. I’ve been looking for a better way to teach for years, but I didn’t know it existed.”

The TeachKind booth had something different about it. You could see it in the faces of the educators. It wasn’t just curiosity—it was relief. Gratitude. Excitement. We weren’t just offering a tool. We were offering permission: You don’t have to hurt animals to teach biology. You can lead with compassion.

By the end of the first day, we had run out of KindFrogs. 800 of them gone. We had to overnight more for the rest of the conference. Teachers were signing up left and right. Some took flyers for their colleagues. Others invited us to present at their state education conferences. One teacher from Colorado said, “We need this at every school in our district.”

Some moments still echo in my head. A vendor from a biological supply company—someone who sells real frogs—came over to our booth. He held a KindFrog, flipped it over, and said, “You know what? I’ve got two vegans on my sales team. They’re always on me about this. Maybe it’s time we stop selling frogs altogether.”

That’s not just a booth conversation. That’s a cultural shift.

The future of science education is humane. It’s inclusive. It’s trauma-informed. It’s rooted in respect for life—human and nonhuman.

TeachKind is leading that shift.

As a Philanthropic Specialist, I’m used to talking about the impact of this work. But that day, I got to witness it. I got to see the faces of teachers who felt empowered, for the first time, to offer a better, kinder path to their students.

One of my favorite moments? A teacher told us she was going to use KindFrog to reach a student in her classroom who loved animals and refused to participate in dissection. “He’s been struggling to stay engaged in science,” she said. “This will bring him back.”

That’s the ripple effect of this work. We’re not just saving frogs. We’re shaping futures. We’re showing students that compassion and curiosity can go hand in hand. That science doesn’t require violence. That there’s a better way.

There were so many powerful organizations in that room—our friends at NAVS and Animalearn were there too—but the crowd at our booth said everything. People want change. And with tools like KindFrog, we’re giving them the resources—and the courage—to make it happen.

The future is animal-free science. And TeachKind is making sure it arrives faster than we ever imagined.

—

🐸 Want to learn more about TeachKind and KindFrog? Visit teachkind.org/science to explore their resources and see how you can help bring humane education to schools across the country.

📩 Subscribe to this Substack to follow my journey at PETA, hear behind-the-scenes stories from our team, and learn more about what animal liberation looks like—from science classrooms to rural backyards, from donor events to policy changes, and everything in between.

Next up: reflections on veganism, speciesism, social justice, and the yoga mat as a space for radical empathy.

Stay tuned. And thank you for caring.

When I stepped out of the van that morning to observe PETA’s team in action, the weather was beautiful—clear skies and warm air. It was deceptively peaceful. But this is a region where dogs freeze to death in winter, pant and collapse from heat exhaustion in summer, and no one comes to help except for fieldworkers with PETA’s Community Animal Project (CAP).

I work as a Philanthropic Specialist at PETA, and part of my job is to secure funding so that this team can do its work. But this day wasn’t about grants or fundraising. It was about bearing witness, and what I saw that day will never leave me.

Social Workers for Animals

Hollie Wood and Ashley Beard are more than rescuers; they are social workers for animals. Every day, they head into communities in southeastern Virginia and northeastern North Carolina, armed with case records that tell them everything they need to know: the animal’s condition, the temperament of their owner, and whether it’s safe to knock on the door. They know which homes welcome help—and which don’t.

These fieldworkers are always on call, ready to respond immediately, seven days a week, and in all weather.

The homes we visited that day weren’t new. Hollie and Ashley had been there dozens of times. Every dog we saw had a PETA doghouse beside them. These doghouses are part of PETA’s Doghouse Program, which is made possible by our members and donors. They’re built by hand at our Norfolk headquarters to be sturdy and long-lasting and include a toll-free number spraypainted on the side if an owner ever needs help. For some dogs, this simple wooden shelter is the only thing standing between them and death from exposure to disease and the elements.

I had never seen dogs chained outside like this. The only time I’d seen a dog tied to a pole was in the city when their guardian ran into a store to grab something quickly. The sight was shocking, and I felt heartbroken immediately.

William’s Dogs: Trapped in the Prison of Neglect

Our first stop of the day was William’s house.

William isn’t the legal owner of the dogs we came to see. He’s the neighbor, the man who feeds them when their owner can’t be bothered. He was the one who met us outside that day, but it was clear: he was the decision-maker.

We were there to pick up Coco for her spay appointment. Coco, Lil Boy, and Bingo lived on short chains in the yard. Lil Boy—a tiny black Pomeranian—was already showing signs of heartworm disease. Ashley and I pleaded with William to let us take Lil Boy. Ashley promised her mother would adopt him and give him the free life he deserved. A life indoors, on a soft couch, surrounded by kindness.

William told us again and again that he loved these dogs and that he was doing right by them, and he believed it. I asked him if he knew anyone who let their dog live inside the house. He smiled crookedly and shook his head. “No,” he said. That doesn’t happen here.”

While we talked, Bingo—playful and eager for attention—jumped up on Hollie. His tail wagged so hard it looked like it might fly off. William scolded him immediately: “You’re going to get in trouble if you do that again.” I stepped in. “Didn’t you just say you love these dogs?” I asked. “You can’t threaten them if you love them.”

William dropped his head and covered his face with his hand. “You’re right,” he said quietly.

It was a moment of reflection for him—and for me. William was a good man in many ways. Misguided. Not malicious. He didn’t fully understand the harm he was causing. That’s why we were there. To have hard conversations. To help him see a different way. To convince him to surrender Lil Boy.

He didn’t surrender him that day. But we left hopeful. Maybe he would say yes when we returned to bring Coco back after her surgery.

Before we loaded Coco into the CAP van that morning, we explained to William that she needed to recover inside after her surgery. A clean, warm space was critical. He shook his head. That wasn’t going to happen.

And so we drove away. Knowing we had to bring Coco back to that same yard the next day. Knowing she would recover on the ground outside. I know what you’re thinking: why return her? Why leave her behind?

Unless dogs are suffering in a way that meets the law’s narrow criteria for seizure—and even then, we rely on animal control to act—we must leave them. But, we keep showing up, earning their trust, and hoping they surrender them. And often, they do, because fieldworkers like Hollie and Ashley don’t give up.

Candy’s Final Gift: Peace

Next, we went to Melvetta’s house. She had called CAP about Candy. Candy was eighteen years old and wasting away. She wasn’t eating. She seemed lost, confused. Melvetta said she had dementia.

Candy had spent her entire life tied to a pole in the front yard. She had lived through every storm, every heat wave, every freezing night—alone. No walks. No couch. Just the end of a chain and a patch of dirt.

When we arrived, Melvetta was crying. She said she’d been weeping for days. Her son stood nearby, his arms crossed. Silent.

Hollie knelt beside Candy. She spoke gently, explaining to Melvetta that euthanasia meant Candy would pass peacefully and with dignity. That was the kindest thing we could offer her now.

When it was time to lift Candy into the carrier, Melvetta’s son did it himself—carefully, tenderly, whispering to her as he moved her frail body. He told us he was thinking of getting a tattoo to remember her. He said he was holding back tears.

I stood there, watching them. Two people who clearly loved this dog. And yet, she had lived eighteen years chained outside. It’s easy to want to be angry. To point fingers. To cry, “How could you?” But it’s not that simple. They loved Candy as much as they knew how. In their world, this was normal.

Before we left, Melvetta told us she wouldn’t get another dog. She said she was too old, and it wouldn’t be fair. This rarely happens. So often, families replace a dog within days, sometimes hours. But not this time. And in that moment, I felt hope.

We put Candy in the CAP van beside Coco. Coco would be spayed later that day, but we knew that Candy was coming to our facility for peaceful end-of-life care.

That night, Candy was euthanized at PETA’s shelter. Hollie and Ashley were by her side when she slipped away. It was likely the first kindness she had been shown in a very long time.

Sampson and the Chihuahuas: One Home, Two Fates

Our last stop that day was at a home where we had finally convinced the owner to let us take her two Chihuahuas for spay surgeries. It had taken time—multiple visits, conversations, and patience—but now we had the opportunity to prevent two more dogs from adding to the heartbreaking cycle of breeding and neglect.

If PETA’s team had not encountered these dogs, they would not have been spayed. Instead, they would continue to be bred repeatedly, birthing litter after litter of puppies destined to be given away, sold, or dumped. Without basic veterinary care, they’d be at risk for pyometra, mammary tumors, uterine infections, and more.

Inside the house, the Chihuahuas were warm and clean. We loaded them gently into the van, grateful for the small victories that can mean everything in places like this.

And then we saw the shed.

It was set far back on the property, almost swallowed by overgrowth. The farther we walked, the quieter it got, as if the world held its breath. The shed was dark and weather-worn, with heavy shadows inside that made it impossible to see what was beyond the doorway. But Hollie and Ashley could see a tether—tight, unmoving, stretched out from the door's frame into the blackness inside.

They stopped in their tracks. “Is there a dog in there?” Hollie asked.

The woman hesitated. Then she shrugged. “Yeah,” she said flatly. “That’s Sampson. There is something wrong with him.”

I saw Ashley and Hollie walking up slowly, feeling a knot tighten in my chest with every step. Their eyes adjusted to the dark, and then they saw him.

Sampson was out there—chained in the dark, behind the house, at the edge of the property line. He was only five months old, but his body was already failing. His skin was red and raw from mange. Thick scabs and crust covered his legs. His paws were swollen and cracked, seeping pus. He had no water. No bedding. Just mud and filth.

His owner—the daughter of the woman who had the Chihuahuas—had smeared burned motor oil over his body. She told us it was supposed to “fix him.” It didn’t. It never does. But old myths die hard in places where there’s no access to real veterinary care and no education about how to help an animal suffering like Sampson.

She told us Sampson wasn’t allowed inside because he was sick, and she didn’t want him to make her mother’s Chihuahuas sick. But he was sick because of her negligence, and she couldn’t—or wouldn’t—see that.

Ashley and Hollie tried everything. They explained his health issues and how we could help him and begged her to let us take him. But she grew defensive, angry, and hostile. “That’s my baby,” Sampson’s owner said over and over. But babies need care and protection, and Sampson had none of that.

At one point, they took off his tether while we were there. He didn’t bolt for freedom. He didn’t even run. He was so weak he could barely move. He walked slowly toward an old couch cushion splayed out in the yard and lay down. He rolled over on his back, desperate to scratch his broken skin against the torn stuffing. Then he rolled through a pile of fire ants but didn’t react. He was too far gone.

It was one of the most painful things I have ever witnessed.

And then came the hardest decision we faced in this work: do we call animal control?

In that district, tethering is illegal. But calling animal control often doesn’t work. They’re understaffed and overwhelmed. Sometimes, they don’t come at all. And when they do, owners hide their dogs, pass them off to friends, or claim they ran away.

If we called, there was every chance that Sampson would be gone by the time anyone arrived. So we made the only decision we could: to wait, come back, and try again.

I can still see him. Sampson, in that shed. Not barking. Not whining. Not moving. His eyes were dull and empty. Life at the end of a chain isn’t just a physical prison. It’s a mental one. It steals their soul.

The Weight of Bearing Witness

Since that day, I’ve found it hard to move through my life. I’ll be drinking coffee and answering an email, and suddenly, I think of them. Candy. Lil Boy. Sampson.

The images stay with me. Sampson, rolling through fire ants without flinching. Melvetta’s son lifting Candy with tears in his eyes, whispering to her as if he was saying goodbye. William covering his face with his hands, realizing his love didn’t match his actions.

It’s easy to ask why these people don’t just walk their dogs instead of leaving them chained. But where? There are no sidewalks. No safe places to go.

Why not let them roam free? There are no fences.

Why not let them inside? Some of these homes are so small, so crowded with furniture and trash there’s barely space for the people who live there.

Solutions that seem simple aren’t simple here.

And these are just three stories. We made seven stops that day. Seven homes. Seven different families. At each one, Hollie and Ashley showed up like they always do. There are thousands more stories like these—dogs chained, neglected, forgotten—across these rural communities. And Hollie and Ashley know them all by name.

They aren’t just doing welfare checks. They’re cleaning up feces that have piled up for months. They’re replacing rotting food and slimy green water with fresh supplies. They’re carrying fifty-pound bags of straw through yards that are nothing but thick mud and standing water. They get down in the filth to offer these dogs a scratch behind the ears, an encouraging word, and—when they’re allowed—one moment of affection and love.

Hollie and Ashley leave no dog unseen. They end every day covered in mud from kneeling beside these dogs, filth from cleaning up the waste these animals are forced to live in, and hair from brushing out fur matted with fleas. And they do it all while offering a kind word to every person they meet, no matter how heartbreaking the conditions. Because if they shut the door on an owner, that owner might shut the door on them. And then the dog loses.

Watching them work steadily, patiently, and tirelessly that day, I understood what true compassion looks like. Hollie and Ashley don’t give up. They don’t leave these dogs behind, even when they have no choice but to drive away for now. They come back. Again and again. They remember every dog’s name. They know which ones need extra straw in winter and which ones need more flea treatment in summer. They celebrate the tiniest victories and carry the weight of every loss.

They are superheroes who wear boots caked with mud rather than capes, driving a van loaded with doghouses, vital supplies, and hope.

You Can Help End Their Suffering

PETA’s Community Animal Project (CAP) exists because, without it, no one would have come to rescue these dogs. This program is a lifeline for animals with no one else, and compassionate people like you support it.

CAP work is physically demanding, emotionally exhausting, and never-ending. But it changes lives, and it’s made possible by the support of people who refuse to look away.

You can boost the CAP team’s life-saving work and ensure that chained dogs who are forgotten by the world are not forgotten by us.

Here’s how you can help:

● Learn more about CAP’s lifesaving work here.

● Watch this powerful video showing CAP’s impact here.

● Donate here. Your gift will provide food, shelter, straw bedding, veterinary care, and a chance at freedom for animals who desperately need it.

● Speak out. Educate your community. Share this story. Advocate for laws that ban chaining and tethering. Help end this cycle of suffering.

Follow-Up on Coco and Sampson

There’s good news for Coco—now Nina! Her owner, Gloria, surrendered her to PETA. Nina is thriving in foster care and is now up for adoption.

Sampson was brought to PETA for neutering and urgent medical treatment. He’s currently being treated for severe skin issues, including demodectic mange, a secondary skin infection, and internal parasites. Thanks to our clinic and Community Animal Project staff, Sampson is finally experiencing relief from the constant pain he endured for so long.

We’re now working with local law enforcement to secure legal custody of Sampson and to pursue cruelty-to-animals charges against his former owner. In the meantime, he is recovering in foster care with one of our dedicated fieldworkers—finally safe, warm, and loved.

PETA makes this lifesaving work possible thanks to the determination of our field team and the generosity of our members and donors.